


Where is our Child?

by Sugar_and_Salt



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Mystery, alternative universe, is there such a thing as soft horror?, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugar_and_Salt/pseuds/Sugar_and_Salt
Summary: One day, a family sent out their son to check up on a relative, thinking nothing into it.





	Where is our Child?

**Author's Note:**

> hello dear prompter!  
> I'm actually very nervous about this - even when the prompt allowed me to go wild, I hope you didn't expect something more... smutty. If you did, I'm REALLY sorry! D:

 

Scorching. The sun was scorching hot, burning down on Jongdae's head and causing the air to flicker. The asphalt beneath his feet was radiating heat and his shirt was sticking to his back uncomfortably. His arm was soaked where it held his jacket; that damned jacket he'd needed back home, where he'd boarded the train with rain hammering down on everything. Now the rain was gone, and so were the clouds. But the humidity lingered; a fine layer of it woven into dry, mean heat. Jongdae had to walk uphill now, his steps slowing down considerably. Around him, pretty fences passed by, each one of them leading to a fancy house and marking the entrance of a rich person's property. He didn't see many of those with all the plants, bushes, and trees purposefully obscuring his view. Rich people liked their privacy, it seemed.

In the shadow of a tree, Jongdae paused, adjusting the disgustingly hot strap of his leather messenger bag and allowing himself to down the last of his water. He looked around the area and saw the ocean in the not too far distance, peeking out just between luscious trees. It was frustratingly windless today, considering he was so close to the ocean. Maybe later tonight or around dawn he’d walk down to the shore and enjoy the fresh breeze before he boarded the train back.

 Maybe.

It was quiet around him, except for the very low buzz of nature. No cars, no bicycles, no barking dogs, and no people. It seems the pressing heat has forced everyone to stay in.

Rows and rows of low brick walls and fence gates made the simple crossing look like part of a maze, but none of them resonated with him. None of them matched the soft, washed out childhood memory he had been carrying around for years. It wasn't a heavy weight, not at all. Jongdae has hardly ever met his aunt and uncle, even as a child. His memories of them were neither very exciting and great, nor plain bad, just barely worth remembering at all. He wouldn't even be here, tracing after such a sun-bleached memory, if it hadn't been for his parents specifically mentioning he should pay them a visit.

_Your aunt has been so sad and withdrawn lately, and now we haven't heard from her in weeks. She always asks about you, so your visit might cheer her up. Maybe bring her some flowers, have a nice chat? You don't mind, do you?_

Jongdae didn't. Much. It was a little awkward, but if him going would for some reason cheer his relatives up, there was no reason for him not to take a day or two out of his vacation to help out. He didn’t buy flowers, though. He'd hoped to find a flower shop on the way, but didn't. Now a package of probably very soft and melted chocolate truffles was all he had to offer.

He crawled uphill until the ground finally evened out, if only for a few steps. He then took a right turn, remembering the map he had taken a photo of, since he was too lazy to take it out again. It should be right around the corner now, somewhere around here, any of the fences might be the right one. White bricks, orderly bushes, red bricks,brown bricks, and a dark green fence that shimmered violet in the few strips of sunlight. Jongdae paused, staring at the gate and the overgrown brick road leading to a garage. Plants seemed dead set on reclaiming the ground and eating away at the garage, which didn't look overly rusty or abandoned. It was hard to believe anyone living in an area this posh would let nature take over part of their precious estate like that.The whole view reminded Jongdae of his aunt's house, but there was no way she'd let this happen, so he blamed it on his blurry memories. He threw one last look at the lock keeping the gate closed, at the way it started rusting at the edges, before moving on and turning around a corner. His memory was grabbing him by the arm now and forcing him to stop in his tracks. This was his aunt's home for sure. He remembered it clearly now, the big stone pillars, the white gate that barely allowed a look inside - Jongdae was much taller now and could look over the gate and at the spacious two story building, the white walls almost blinding in the sun.

He took a moment to look for the doorbell, and when he found none, he hesitantly pushed the gate open. There was no dog coming up to greet him, and no alarm going off. Jongdae still closed the gate behind him, because he was a polite person who felt a bit like an intruder at the moment. Jongdae’s mother had left his aunt a message, letting her know he would be visiting, but maybe she still hadn’t read it. With the back of his hand, Jongdae wiped at his sweaty forehead and fiddled with his bangs, hoping to make them look a little less terrible as he walked down the stone path. The path looked much better than the one leading to the garage, which must also be theirs, considering how close it was.Still, the lawn was long overgrown and in desperate need of mowing – at least if you were one for the snobby, gated life, which Jongdae assumed almost everyone in this area was. But maybe his aunt and uncle liked the natural look. He couldn't remember that.

As he got closer to the house, he saw a medium large car parked next to it. Jongdae couldn’t think of a reason why it wasn't parked in the garage. Who knew, maybe they preferred it this way. But seeing how the entire car was covered in a fuzzy yellow blanket of pollen that was barely allowing the red paint to seep through, Jongdae thinks it would’ve been wiser if they’d kept it in there.. The car looked dusty and forgotten, the sight causing Jongdae to feel disgusted deep down, in a very strange way he couldn't put into words. Maybe it was the shape of the pollen or the sheer amount of it, looking like crumbs that were thickly sprinkled. Reproductive pieces of living materia—

Jongdae shook his head; this was no time for his weird, deeply-rooted quirks. He took the steps leading to the front door, his shoes meeting the white marble with a clean, unmuffled sound. He found a doorbell this time, and when he rang it, he could hear it echo through the house. Jongdae waited. He counted to five. Nothing. He counted to five once more, then rang the doorbell again. This time, he listened closely for any sounds, staring at the structured hardwood. Nothing. No sound.

He looked at the window next to the door, but the curtains were drawn shut. Instinctively, he turned his head to confirm again that their car was there. He took a few steps back, let his gaze wander upwards and just as he thought, all the curtains were drawn shut. It really was hot, but this seemed a bit excessive. Maybe no one was there, after all. Maybe the car parked in front of him wasn’t their only one, maybe they’d taken the other out for a drive.For a few seconds, he stood unsurely on the doorstep, looking around the garden.  
Maybe they'd gone on vacation without telling his mother and he'd come all the way here for nothing. Looking back at the door, Jongdae wondered if maybe something happened and they were in need of help. But the weeds crawling up the side of the stairs made him think whether they would really _still_ need help, if it was something that had happened that long ago.  


Jongdae lightly shook his head, willing the unpleasant thoughts away. What a weird mood he was in today. Either way, he couldn't just leave like that. He knocked on the door, trying the handle without thinking anything of it, only for the door to budge.

Just like that.

Jongdae froze in motion, like a child caught with a lighter. The door cracked open, just the tiniest bit – handle going back to its initial state, pressed down on the door.He could wait inside, maybe look for a clue as to where they went. It wasn't exactly morally alright, but they _did_ leave the door open., Otherwise, Jongdae would be stuck in the middle of nowhere for an unforeseeable time. With a deep inhale, he pushed the door open and was met with  a sound. Some sort of rumbling, a numb clatter that was gone the moment the door was open. Jongdae was greeted by a waft of cool air, and a semi-dark corridor that ended in a staircase. He looked around, eyes wandering to the ceiling as if to see through it. There was nothing but polished wood, and eerie silence. Starting to doubt himself, Jongdae stepped inside. He shut the door behind him, expecting it to creak. It didn't. Must have been his imagination earlier. He looked down the vast, deserted foyer, with doors littered left and right. It was easy enough to see with the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains of the other rooms, easy to see how slightly dusty and deadly silent the place was.

"Hello?" Jongdae asked into the void, dust particles lazily hovering in the air. "Aunt Jaeun? Uncle? It's me, Jongdae."

Nothing. Apparently there really wasn't anybody home. He looked around for a light switch, hesitated, but ultimately pushed it. Nothing happened. How could the fuse short-circuit when no one was home? Jongdae cautiously pushed at the front door until the latch bolt touched the door frame, not actually closing it (it was silly, but he preferred it stayed open). The small crack minimized the unforgiving sun rays to a barely noticeable strip of light and gave him over to the soft semi-darkness. Unsurely, he stood in the entrance area. All of this didn't feel too good. Surely his mind was running into absurd directions, like it usually did when one was alone in places that shouldn't be empty. There was nothing scary about the house. It looked clean, albeit a bit dusty. The furniture was nice and he couldn't spot a single odd thing. A board next to the door held a few keys, two brochures of nearby restaurants, and faded post-its Jongdae could hardly read in this lighting but could obviously tell held phone numbers. Still, he couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling prickling in his stomach. Slowly, he walked down the corridor, looking into every open door. There were three on the left and one at the far right end. The first door on the left was closed, but a tacky, old-fashioned sign read 'toilet', so Jongdae didn't mind that one. The next one was really dark, with only a small window near the ceiling. Rows of shelves told him that it was a pantry. The last door stood wide open, displaying an office room. His only clue was the silhouette of desks inside. It looked a bit more chaotic than the rest, but with the almost perfectly opaque curtains, it was hard to tell. He found what he was looking for behind the glass door to his right, leading to a spacious living room. His memories were really blurry, but he remembered his aunt's house having really big rooms and glass doors filling almost the whole wall, leading to the terrace and garden.  
  
His memories of the place were right – even with the curtains drawn shut, the room was bright. It didn't feel like walking through a cave, but rather a relaxing late winter afternoon. Initially, he'd wanted to rip the curtains open, but he could see everything clearly and his shirt was still a bit moist from the sun beating down on him. He'd had enough scorching heat for now. A big, elegant, leather sofa was placed in the center of the living room. It was facing a television screen in the corner, right next to the terrace Jongdae was looking at. He turned to see that the room was very open indeed; a generous dining table placed in between the living room and kitchen caught his eye. He walked around it, carefully placing his bag and jacket over one of the chairs. He let his gaze wander, scanning for clues as to where his aunt and uncle might have gone, but there was nothing on the table except for an orderly tablecloth and a vase with fake flowers. There was a cupboard on his left that had framed photos on the top and drawings pinned to the wall above it. A few of the photo frames had been placed face down.  
  
Puzzled, Jongdae took a closer look. He vaguely remembered his aunt having a child – a son, he thought, but he'd never heard or seen anything about him. Did he die? Was that why the frames were placed down like that? Because there were plenty of pictures of his aunt and uncle, but none of his son. But no, lifting the frame revealed that there was no picture to hide. The next few frames had none either. Jongdae paused at the last frame; it looked sort of damaged from the back, as if someone had tried to open it with brute force rather than the nerve-racking patience these things usually took. That was strange, but it certainly didn't tell him anything other than they might have been angry at their son. Or that he died. He took a look at the drawings on the wall above them and blinked in surprise. The framed drawing stayed the same, no matter how long he looked at it. He knew that picture - because it was he who had drawn it. There was a park with scribbly trees and an all-yellow background, Jongdae only remembered because the adults had kept asking him about it. He’d told them at the time that everything turned yellow when the sun went down. But how come it was here? A very close look told him that it was a print. Did his aunt actually ask for the picture? They weren't really that close, though. Another picture was hung next to his, hand-drawn and unframed. It was just crudely taped to the wall which stood in sharp contrast to the meticulous, geometrical lines spread across the paper. Someone had drawn this pattern with a ballpen, scribbling over the lines again and again until they were equally thick. Perfectly aligned striped areas turned squares, some of them with a straight line running from the top corner to the bottom one – they looked almost like eyes to Jongdae. He didn't know what was so unsettling about this painting.

It _shouldn't_ be.

There were just lines, patiently drawn, perfectly aligned, weaving into an endless pattern. Occasionally, there was even a colorful, small square or triangle drawn by a marker; and yet Jongdae just felt strange looking at this. It must be something like the pollen thing, his subconscious doing things beyond the superficial, human grasp.

Jongdae was getting uncomfortable and therefore moved away, in hopes of finding something more telling. He went around the table and into the kitchen behind it. There, on the counter, he found a pair of keys weighing down a few receipts. Grocery receipts that dated back a week or two. If the keys were there, and the car was there—

Another clattering sound came from above; it sounded a lot like something falling. This time, Jongdae was certain he'd heard it. This time, he was certain he was scared. Someone was up there. Jongdae stood in the semi-darkness, staring at the ceiling, at the door, listening for noises on the stairs, waiting for someone to sneak through the door – a burglar, maybe? A serial killer? Anyone could waltz into this private, closed off neighbourhood. How long would it even take for people to notice things were amiss? One week? Two?

Jongdae stood there for a few seconds, rooted to the ground. He couldn't stay like this. He had to get a grip. He swallowed hard, stared at the silly, floral tablecloth, and told himself that he was being ridiculous. Right now, Jongdae was being the kid that's scared of the dark, mean basement – when there's really nothing but spiders in there. He was starting to paint this whole, scary scenario in his head and it wasn't funny, so he should stop.  
He told himself to be realistic. He had come to visit his aunt. Aunt and uncle were not home, but everything suggests they should be – and there are noises upstairs. Any object of worth seemed intact, and the house was as clean as ever. The only logical conclusion was that they were upstairs, in some kind of bad position and needed help. And here he was downstairs, wasting time with his idiotic thoughts, distracted by some ghost stories his brain made up. This was ridiculous indeed.

Determined, he walked to the large curtains and pulled them open with sharp, unapologetic tugs. Sunlight immediately flooded the room like any normal day. Dust became visible in the air and Jongdae felt a little less scared. And now he'd go upstairs and check for his aunt, who apparently cared so much about him. With newfound courage, he left the living room and took the stairs. The staircase was rather dark, even with the living room being so bright. Jongdae thought his eyes were playing tricks on him but crept up carefully nonetheless, placing both hands on the wall to steady himself.

"Aunt? Aunt Jaeun? Are you alright?" He called up. He felt his inner bravado shrink again when he got no reply, but he couldn’t just leave now and tell people he hadn't found anyone. He felt the need to at least check the rooms. He entertained the thought of calling someone to keep him company, but his phone was in the pocket of his jacket, and therefore down in the living room. He told himself to stop being such a scaredy cat and get this over with.

The staircase went around two narrow corners, and up there, more semi-darkness waited for him. He'd just rip open the curtains again, Jongdae told himself.  
  
When he reached the top, he was greeted by dark corners, doors, and a small window to his left. This house was really dark and weirdly designed, Jongdae thought as he walked over, careful not to bump into the potted plant. It looked like it was starving in the shadow, egging him on to open the curtains, which he did. It didn't do much, but he could now clearly see the outline of the angular room and the signs on the doors. The first one wore a plate clearly meant for small children, spelling 'My Room' with little flowers around it. It wasn't necessity as much as curiosity that led Jongdae to try and open it, but it was locked. Moving on from the irrelevant room, he opened the door to the bathroom. It looked... pretty dirty. There were no curtains, just a blurry foil taped to the glass window. It was the only somewhat dirty room, with grease and black dirt streaking the sink and staining the rug. The cupboard above the sink was open, showing its messy contents, with some of them being thoughtlessly put on top of the sink or pushed to the back. Among them were bandages, small scissors and disinfectant. But other than that, no one was there. They really did get hurt. Jongdae cursed internally, grabbed the nearest door handle, and entered the bedroom.

"Aunt?"

No one.

"Uncle?"

His voice was too small for the large room. Tidy but dusty. And very much empty. It was getting harder to drown out the worried buzz in his stomach. There was a door leading out of the bedroom, and when Jongdae pushed it open, his eyes widened and he took half a step back on instinct. This room was... a mess. An absolute mess that was staring down at Jongdae, crowding him in.

Jongdae blinked. The curtains were opened to allow just a wide strip of sunlight enough to blind him. It shone on clothes, fabric, and hangers. All of which were strewn across the floor.  A dressing room. It was small, but the mess made it even smaller. Open cupboards, the contents of which were ripped apart and spread across the room, hung up on hangers that were put wherever possible; over cupboard doors, the back of a chair, even laid along the guest bed. This wasn't an ordinary mess. Someone had put together outfits, whole outfits, clothes that were always meant to be hung together. There was a stark, yellow pullover draped in front of a yellow dress, almost glowing in the room’s dim lighting. A ratty old t-shirt over what looked like tracksuit pants, and a blue dress shirt over a floral top and slacks. Most of the combinations looked wrong and bizarre. A photobook was spread out on the guest bed, looking like an entire mess on its own. He'd approached it before he knew it; and it wasn't obvious at first, with so many loose pictures lying around, ripped out of their place – but those were pictures of Jongdae.  
That was him, playing in the sandbox behind their house, holding that green plastic shovel he could still remember. Him, sitting at their kitchen table years later with his shiny new satchel ready for the first day of school. Him, smiling on his high school graduation photo, and another of his university graduation. It was all him.

Jongdae felt chills descend upon him, grabbing him by the back of the neck, unwilling to be consoled or simmered down. This wasn't normal. They were prints, too. His aunt must have asked for the photos and then printed them out. But why? Just what had been going on here? Was he in danger?

He looked up at all the outfits staring down at him like lifeless corpses lining the walls. Out of sheer, morbid fascination, he approached one of them and felt himself step on a piece of paper. At his feet, another print of him was placed on top of other clothes. He was around six years old, wearing his now donated yellow raincoat and smiling at the camera. His head whipped up, seeking the yellow outfit. It was right above the picture.

Realization struck him like an electric shock before his mind could formulate any thoughts. Someone had been recreating his clothes. The thick, yellow pullover and the bright, frilly dress were a poor attempt at recreating the raincoat. He took a look at the nearest one, spotting himself in chinos and a denim jacket in a rather recent photo and stared at the grotesque mix of garments vaguely resembling it.

Out. He had to get out of this place.

He’d had enough.

Crumpling the photo in his hand, Jongdae turned on his heels and ran, all caution and reservation gone out the window. This was insane.

He took the stairs as quick as he could in the dark, hands scraping over the dark walls to steady himself, the sound echoing through the ghostly silence. He turned to the left and into the living room, hitting his leg on a chair in the semi-darkness, but he _just_ had to grab his bag and then—

Dark. It was dark again. He whipped around to see the windows closed, and a figure standing in the living room.

He didn't even scream; all that escaped him was a helpless, scared noise escaping with his breath.

"Who are you?" He asked, obvious panic in his voice, brain running on autopilot. He couldn't see details in the vague light coming in directly from behind the person. The shape moved slightly, but not towards him.

"I'm the son of this house."

The voice was higher than his own, but it had an unreadable edge.

"Then why are you lurking around in the dark?" Jongdae asked almost accusingly, refusing to calm down.

"It's too bright. You've been doing the same."

The reply was curt, matter of fact, and eerily devoid of a message Jongdae could decipher. Or maybe his brain was in too jumbled up to even try. It just kept yelling at him that things were not alright; there might be an explanation for the son, but none for the photos and clothes.

"I'm leaving," he announced shakily. The silhouette stood perfectly still.

"You only just came."

He didn't reply. The muscles in his shoulders and legs were cramping up so much it hurt. He wanted to bolt, but part of him kept him rooted to the ground. Stupid, stupid fear. He was petrified.

"Why did you come, Jongdae?" The son asked, sounding neither angry, nor sad. Curious, maybe, but not in a childish way.

"I– why do you know my name? My mother– your aunt sent me to check in on your parents," Jongdae replied, unsure words tumbling out of his mouth. He was talking without thinking.  There were pictures of him everywhere, of course the son knew who he was.

"Of course I know you."

It was like hearing his own thoughts being spoken out loud, and when the silhouette moved towards him, Jongdae twitched back.

"I really wanted to meet you. I didn't know whether I ever would. Will you run away if I try to see you better?"

 _Yes_ , Jongdae's mind screamed.

"You could open the curtains," he stated weakly.

"They'll blind me. I won't be able to see you, then."

"Please don't," Jongdae whispered, taking another step back. The kitchen isle dug into his back. If he wanted to run out of the room or even towards the terrace - he'd have to pass by the young man, and there wasn't exactly much room. He thought about exiting through the kitchen window, but fumbling with the curtains and rolling the shutters off would take too long.

"You're so _scared_ ," the son said, and he sounded worried for the first time. "You sound like I did with a knife to my throat. I'm not holding any weapons. I don't want to hurt you, I'm just curious."

None of this helped Jongdae calm down, especially not the way he mentioned having a knife to his throat like it actually happened. This was a dangerous psychopath, who now took one step after the other towards him. Slowly, but surely.  
Jongdae looked around for sharp or heavy objects, maybe a knife or a pan. _Anything._ But the kitchen was spotless. He ripped open a random cupboard, but it was too dark to make anything out, his fingers grazing some cling film and that was it.

"Would you really hurt me?"

Arms whipping up protectively, Jongdae stared at the person on the other side of the kitchen isle. It was still dark, with them being as far away from the light source as possible – but he could make out a little more now, and what he saw made him gasp.

"You..." He began, trailing off. He crept a few steps to the corner of the isle, with the man turning towards him, causing the light to hit him him from a better angle. Jongdae looked at his own silhouette.

"I didn't know I had a twin brother, I- I don't–"

He wasn't making sense anymore, but it looked too real to be a mask.

"You don't," the other confirmed with certainty. He took slow steps backwards, back into the room towards the terrace, and Jongdae followed. Slow, hesitant, scared.

Fascinated.

"We look the same though. We have _got_ to be brothers. But that would mean..."

The stream of soft light distracted Jongdae, as it became undeniable that he was looking into his very own face. The other shook his head.

"No. _I_ look like _you_ ," he said patiently, emphasizing the words 'I' and 'you'.

Jongdae shook his own head.

"Then we’ve got to be twins–"

"We're not," the other disagreed, a mild impatience lacing his words now. It was gone as quick as it came, though. "It would have been nice if we were twins."

"Why?"

"Why?" He repeated, as if it the question was insultingly stupid, but he stayed calm and talked to Jongdae as if they were friends. They both stopped close to the window, with Jongdae standing only two steps away from the person who looked like his clone.

"What would you think, if you were to bear a child – if _someone_ bears a child with your seed and it grows up, only to end up looking like someone else’s?" the son asked, his voice laced with a stinging kind of bitterness. Jongdae didn't feel like it was directed at him.

"Someone who was born over a year before your child,” the son continued. “What would you think?"

"I... don't know," Jongdae began, but the intense gaze directed at him asked for the truth, so he responded, "that my partner cheated on me?"

"Yes. But assuming that's not the case. You get tested, and it's not the case. And your child keeps growing, keeps looking exactly like your relative's child. What would you think?"

"I don't- know. I don't," Jongdae said quietly, shaking his head. This was too much to accept and wrap his mind around at once. The other's expression was still so unreadable it made him feel even more cornered.  


"And what would you _do_?"

"What? Nothing? It's kinda strange- I'm sorry, it's," Jongdae began, his rambling coming out choppy and unsure, "really unusual, to be honest. And a little weird to me because I had no idea. But- so what? If that's how it is, then there's nothing to do. Who cares what their child looks like, as long as they’re happy?"

Jongdae hadn't realized the other was stepping towards him until that moment he saw him smile and realized that he was less than an arm’s length away from him. His smile looked nice, even if Jongdae should be used to it. Then there was a hand reaching out for him and Jongdae naturally evaded its grasp. Before he could distance himself any further, their positions were switched, Jongdae’s back meeting the glass almost carefully. The touch left before Jongdae could lash out at him, and he found himself looking into his very own face, loosely caged.  


"You're really pretty, Jongdae," his twin breathed out, a smile carrying into his voice, joined by quiet, child-like adoration.

"I look like you," Jongdae whispered, his mind wiped blank.

"You're pretty inside," came the soft reply, whispered against Jongdae's lips. "You would have been kind to me. Your aunt and uncle also thought I was pretty inside; they cut me open once to check, but they only found flesh and bones."

"What?" Jongdae asked, disturbance stirring harder, making him feel nauseous. The boy's eyes flit up to meet his. It was like looking into a mirror and finding a person you didn't know. He watched the other touch his own cheek fleetingly, fingers grazing a scar Jongdae hadn't noticed before.

"You might not have thought too much into it, but your aunt did. Your uncle, too. Children don't just look like other children. It doesn't happen. _It's not our child_ , they thought. But what happened?"

Jongdae swallowed. He felt a tingle, a tingle that made him want to close the gap, to touch. It was awful.

"Where is our child?"

The question was so quiet, so wispy and fragile, and yet sharp enough to cut the inside of Jongdae's lungs.

"It must be somewhere in there. _Give it back_."

The last part sounded like a demand, a voiceless demand, an echo of the past. Jongdae felt the confusion on his own face, a movement that was allowed, as it didn't bring them any closer.

"What? What do you mean?" He asked, small, uncertain. The other looked just like him, even though he was supposedly a year or so younger. Right now, he looked older. Much older. Certain.

"Have you not seen the books lying around? They read a lot of books, old ones."

Jongdae shook his head. So light, it was more of an allusion to the gesture.

"They have a lot of them; books that talk about children of evil, of fae and demons, who get exchanged for a human child at birth, hoping to be raised by humans."

It sounded almost like a faithful quote, the way he said it.

"That's nonsense. It's made up," Jongdae protested immediately, and he could see the other's gaze soften.

"You think that? They didn't. How do you get a demon to leave and return your child? Do you chase it away by pain? Hit it, starve it, skin it?"

"They didn't skin you."

Jongdae had no idea why that was the first thing to come to mind. His head was refusing these information.

"They didn't. They took a look and decided it's not worth it."

He pressed their cheeks together and Jongdae's breath hitched. Warm skin, with a rough surface around the scar.

"You're still so complete, so whole," he murmured, a soft yearning caressing Jongdae's cheek after the contact was broken. When he saw the fear still binding Jongdae down, shimmering in his wet eyes, he bit his lips.

"They taught me to read, Jongdae," he said, urgency and maybe desperation tinging the neutral mask. "They read me stories and taught me what a human life is supposed to be like, only not to let me have it. They were raising their son inside of me, just so he'd be fine when I free him one day. But Jongdae-"

Jongdae was holding his breath, tensing even more under the insistent fingers that grabbed his upper arms as those intense eyes were staring at him, trying to reach him.

"There is nobody inside me," he whispered slowly, as if letting him in on the biggest secret in the world.

"There's flesh and bones. There’s blood, fear, and knots. But there's no other life. I'm all alone in my head. It's just me."

"Where's aunt Jaeun?" Jongdae asked, voice barely loud enough to crack, and yet it did. His twin drew away at that, slowly leaning out of his personal space; but still standing close enough to feel his body blocking the cool air of the room. Jongdae's back was burning against the hot window.

"Why do you want to see her?" he asked, calmly, a little more reserved now.

"My mother asked me to- to check up on her and her husband," Jongdae uttered, shaky, shy, cautious, and very, very small. "That's what I came here for."

He was scared. He didn't know why he was saying what he was, he didn't _really_ want to know any more about his aunt or uncle; but at this point, he was walking a brittle path that was crumbling away behind him. It might crumble before him, too. If he stood still forever, it might crumble under his feet, as well. Moving forward was his only chance at surviving.

"I see. They're in my room," the other said, actually stepping away enough to give Jongdae room to move. He didn't. Pictures of himself being assaulted and never leaving this house flashed before his mind.

"You're still so _scared_ ," the other commented with a slightly tilted head, his unhappy, imploring gaze reading Jongdae's emotions like they were his own. "What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing- I just. I won't stop shaking. I can't."

Why did he admit that out loud? He had no idea.

"Lead the way? Please?"

"You won't run away, will you? We’ve only just met," the boy began, trailing off.

"I won't."

It was nothing but the truth. He couldn't. Jongdae couldn't run away now. The path behind him had already turned to dust.

After a long look, the other turned around to slowly walk towards the living room door, and Jongdae followed. They walked past the pictures, the frames, and images of a family pretending Jongdae was their own; putting up his pictures and showing him off, nothing but forced, polite smiles on their faces.

They didn't take the stairs.

"I thought they were in-" Jongdae began, but was cut off calmly.

"That's not my room."

He entered the small office instead, navigating the dark room with ease. Jongdae couldn't keep up, and when his twin noticed, he allowed Jongdae to open the curtains, but not too much. _It's so bright, it really hurts my eyes, Jongdae. But I trust you._ He’d said.

Carefully, Jongdae crept towards the window, hitting way too many objects on the way until his fingers got a hold of the heavy curtain fabric. He resisted the urge to rip it open entirely, to let the room be flooded with sunlight, to be reminded of the world outside. He only opened it wide enough for him to understand the layout of the room and avoid tripping on things. The thin light unveiled thick curls of black running along the walls towards the door his twin stood by, running away like streams of spiders making their escape. The sight alarmed him anew.

"Why did you draw on the walls?" he asked, quietly, not moving an inch, staring at the curls of black as if they'd move any moment.

"I didn't. They did. They're protective seals."

Jongdae took a closer look at one near the window. It was a string of symbols indeed, though none he had ever seen before.

"They used to hide them behind the furniture-"

Which explained the mess this room was in-

"But apparently, they were scared enough to not care about that anymore," he added equanimously.

Jongdae swallowed, forced his stomach to relax, and moved towards the metal door the other was standing close to. Streams of black crawling across the ceiling, the walls, the furniture, all came together around the door frame Jongdae was looking at.

He watched his twin – because this was not a copy of himself, this was not him – grab the handle, kicking broken parts of a lock away from them, and then he shot Jongdae a look. A silent question.

Jongdae didn't want to enter this room. He wanted to run away, out of this town, out of this country, maybe even continent. But he had to know. The path was crumbling.

The first thing hitting him was a smell that was foul beyond words. It was so strong that Jongdae retched before his hands had even flown up to instinctively protect his nose.

This room had light flickering in the form of a light bulb fixed in the ceiling, casting the room in a dim, yellow light.

Jongdae heard flies, smelled death, saw black, dirt, red, smudges of black and red–

He forced his gaze up, his hand covering everything below his eyes, blocking the scent as best as he could. But he had to keep his head up and his eyes wide open.

There was a metal wall, and Jongdae just knew they were in the garage he had seen earlier. There were more runes scattered all over the walls, with seemingly no logical pattern behind them. There were chains on the ground; two long ones, and two short ones, all of which were fixed to the stone wall.  _Arms and Legs_ , a voice in his head said. Was it the victim’s voice? Or Jongdae's own?

In a filthy corner out of reach, lay a stack of booklet and notebooks that looked worn out, old, yet colorful. Exercise books.

"Can you see those lines on the wall?" He heard someone say. A dim voice barely reaching him through the buzz of flies and the overwhelming rush of blood urgently pumping through his head.

There were lines, just as he’d heard. Two horizontal lines scribbled on the wall, going up. One had only few, orderly lines, the other a lot of messy ones. It was a growing chart. Images of their living room back home flashed up – the pretty wooden scale and the scent of the blue marker they'd used to mark his growth. Excitement and happiness.

"The green one is yours. There was a time when I wished I would stop growing, but I was always on par with you."

Yes, the lines matched up. They were identical.

"They brought in a priest one day, a holy person."

Jongdae stared at the lines, refusing to look elsewhere – his vision turning blurry the longer he stared. Step by step, the red lines followed the green ones. Every measurement a disappointment, a nail in a coffin, a seal on the wall.

"Changelings are chased away by pain; by either starving, whipping, or burning them. I told you about that. The holy person said that small burns weren’t enough. Back in the day, the fake children were put into an oven, baked and cooked until they flee through the chimney."

His voice rose towards the end, giving it a whispered, fantastic spin, because that's what it was. A fairytale. An ancient nightmare that humanity had left behind.

"I was always scared, even though it's exhausting; but that day, I thought my head would burst."

Jongdae blinked away the tears, pressed down the panic that was an untamed beast trying to claw his way out. His fingers were shaking, digging into his own skin way too hard, but he couldn't pull them away. So he lowered his head, lowered his gaze.

"But I'm happy he showed up, because taking me to an oven meant unchaining me. I'm happy I got the chance, and that I succeeded. The priest escaped and he never returned. I didn't think he would."

Never before had Jongdae seen that much blood. He wasn't scared of movies, because there was no real blood in movies.

He couldn't recognize his aunt. There was flesh, skin, blood, and hair. More blood on the floor, a bone sticking out here and there. Her face was a mess, her body crumpled to a pile. He couldn't recognize what remained of this human being.

"I made more of a mess because I wanted to know. I tugged at the skin to see if she was pretty inside, but she wasn't. Just flesh and bones, just like me."

There was another pile a few steps away, and Jongdae couldn't recognize it either.

"She cried a lot, you know. While drawing the runes. I thought that maybe that might have been my real mother crying in there. But I guess I was lost in their stories."

It was the flies. The moving, buzzing, crawling, disgusting bugs that gave him the final blow. Jongdae retched, his whole body convulsing, wanting to cramp up and die.

"It's okay to throw up. It happened to me, too."

A soothing voice, a hand on his back–

Jongdae shook him off harshly, shrunk back and turned to leave the room. Uncoordinated and still retching, he clawed onto the door frame for balance. He ran, pain flaring up in his feet as he stumbled through the room, a voice following after him. Blurs of semi-darkness passing by until a wooden structure came into focus, until his hands slammed against the door, one gripping the door handle. He saw a third hand on the door, the other's hand. There was a body behind him, and it was keeping the door closed. A body. Not a person. He wasn't a person.

"Breathe, Jongdae. Breathe."

Jongdae hunched his shoulders up, forehead digging into the wood while he heaved and waited for his life to end. For hands to wrap around his neck, and cut his skin open–

"Shh."

A voice shushed him, like a mother would her child. Like he had maybe heard it growing up, just as Jongdae had. The lines on the wall, the hand-drawn picture on the wall, that soothing voice. This was a person, not an animal. This was a person. A person.

Jongdae was still breathing heavily. He tried to speak but choked on his words, sending him into a coughing fit. The hand on the door moved to encompass his clenched fist. Steering clear from the hand that still grasped the door handle.

Jongdae started to cry.

"I know what you want," he forced the words out, hot tears itching, burning his eyes and coating his cheeks. His eyes clenched shut and his head lowered.

"What do I want?" Jongdae heard him ask, his frenzied mind not even trying to pick apart the tone and implications of his voice anymore. Jongdae was giving up.

"You want to kill me and take my place," he choked out. It was true. It was logical. He'd leave Jongdae here, unrecognizable, and return to his home to take his place.

"Why do you think that?"

And the worst thing was that he probably deserved it. Not Jongdae, but the boy that had never gotten a life of his own.

"Is it because of the clothes?"

Or maybe Jongdae did, too, since his mere existence ruined three lives in the most drawn out, torturous way possible.

"I'm sorry. I... it was a silly thing of me to do. I felt like looking and being even more like you to spite them. Because that's what they hated the most."

Jongdae turned around in the other's loose grasp, his arms raised protectively, despite everything. Despite him giving up. The body fought much longer than the brain did. Otherwise, the person across him might have died, being burnt alive without a struggle.

"You don't have to lie," he said, arms lowering just a little because his body didn't know which part it worried about the most.

"You're a kind person. You're kind to me even though you don't have to be. I'm sure you don't want to kill me in a messy way. Because you're kind."

He couldn't help but repeat himself because he could only grasp the magnitude of this realization when he forced himself to listen to it; to cement it. Despite all of this, despite everything, he was being looked at with _kindness_.

"Jongdae, breathe. And listen to me."

Hands wrapped around Jongdae's, nudged into his palm until Jongdae was holding the other's hands – Him doing the holding instead of being held. His twin lowered them, slowly, until they could look at each other. Jongdae felt puffy, wet, red, broken. He looked into his own face, that looked torn, unsure. The other thought about what to say, breathing steadily, and Jongdae subconsciously imitated him.

"I would really be lying if I said I never thought about that. _If only I was born first_ , I'd tell myself. I acted it out in my head, returning to your home, getting a warm hug and a smile, people protecting me, worrying for me. I even imagined how shocked they would be, seeing all the scars and cigarette burns, and how they would make me a delicious meal that would somehow make up for all of it. It was a fantasy."

He looked at Jongdae, looked at himself, trying to cement reality like Jongdae had.

"A fantasy, Jongdae. I long realized that if I were to take your place, your parents and friends and family and maybe even partner would look at me with kind eyes, loving a person I'm not. Loving a person I only look like, someone who might be buried inside me, but isn't. Things would change, but only in appearance. Underneath all that, there would be the same flesh and bones as before. I am aware of that."

Jongdae was breathing a little more steadily now; the smell of bile at the back of his throat, itchy skin, and exhaustion catching up with him.

"Then what do you want?" He rasped out, pressing the other's hands together. Holding him down or holding on to him? He didn't ask himself that.

"I just wanted to meet you. I didn't think I ever would," he admitted, gaze never leaving Jongdae's face. "But you're the only pretty thing I ever knew about. I... I know you say we look the same, but I don't think we do. I look like an ugly version of you."

Jongdae stared at him in confusion, and didn't resist when the other freed a hand to touch his cheek, carefully, gently, as if he were made of glass.

"I see how people would say I'm a mere copy, because a copy can never live up to the original."

 _That's not true_ , Jongdae thought. _And you're not a copy. You're not me, you're different._

"Your eyes have such a pretty shimmer, they just shine like you could see a whole person twinkling behind them. I can't imagine I ever looked like this."

"Your eyes shine, too," Jongdae said. Just like that, words tumbled over the raspy voice, a sad attempt at being heard. The other actually smiled. Quit lying, his smile said. But Jongdae shook his head – slowly, because it hurt.

"It's a different kind of shine, and they're... actually scary to me. But they're alive, and so they shine."

Jongdae looked into this face that was so painfully similar to his and knew that he had never worn an expression like that. Maybe the best word to describe it was disbelief. The disbelief of a child that opened a dark cupboard only to find no monster lurking inside.

"They shine," Jongdae whispered, and he leaned in.

He didn't feel real anymore, nothing did. They were kissing, and it was uncoordinated, warm, soft but insisting, and the most violent kiss Jongdae had ever had. Everything was swirling, all their feelings mixing and his insides convulsing. And maybe Jongdae would die, maybe they would both die, maybe this was the last thing he'd ever do. Feeling himself shouldn't arouse him like that, but he wasn't feeling himself – not really, not at all. He was lost, drowning in too much of everything, and maybe that was the way his twin had felt all along. Even if it was all made up, even if the heavy breathing fanning his skin and hard body and soft lips pressed against him were part of a demon devouring him whole, then it would be a befitting end; and Jongdae knew that for this very moment, they were one. Irrevocably so.

After an eternity pressed into fleeting seconds, Jongdae ripped himself away, taking the chance to open the door and stumble down the stairs and out into the blinding, scorching sunlight.

He paused on the pavement, eyes tearing up under the unforgiving light.

He had taken his chance. And then he looked back at the path left behind. He saw the door to his aunt's house, just slightly open. In the dark, he saw a silhouette of a body looking just like his own, of parted lips and a hand on the door frame. He blinked and squinted against the sunlight, stunned. That would be the closest word to describe the look on his face and the state of Jongdae's mind. His twin wasn't following him, didn't even try to. Maybe he couldn't, maybe he didn't want to.

Jongdae turned away and faced the fence, the pollen-riddled pavement, the blindingly white gate. He breathed. In and out. Images of newspaper articles bled into his conscience, of his own face printed in the medical section, of white walls and isolation, of pills and loneliness.

So much loneliness.

And then he turned back again, extending his hand.

Because the path behind him was going to crumble, and the one beneath his feet, too, if they didn't move.

Was he talking about himself or the person hiding behind the door?

They were connected, overlayed to a point where almost no difference could be seen.

So he didn't ask himself.

 

 

One day, a family sent out their son to check up on a relative, thinking nothing into it. The police discovered a gruesome scene and the tabloids ate it up – not leaving a single, flesh-colored stain behind.

The son went missing after that, and so did the abuse victim. They were never to be seen again.

 


End file.
